Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium (27 page)

‘Never!’ Sandewic exclaimed. ‘Walter Evesham may have been a rogue, but a professional assassin . . . He was the one—’

‘Yes, Sir Ralph, he was the one who trapped Boniface Ippegrave. He committed him into custody but allowed him to escape to sanctuary at St Botulph’s. Let me explain. Sir Ralph, you have fought in Wales and Scotland. Soldiers kill because they have to, because they are frightened or to defend themselves. Sometimes, sodden with ale or blood lust, they can commit horrible crimes, but in the main, most people don’t want to kill for the sake of it. However, whilst serving with the King’s troops I – and I am sure you too, Sir Ralph – came across those who love the smell of blood. They take to killing as a bird to flying. They enjoy it. They relish it. I remember one serjeant-at-arms who loved to hang Welsh prisoners taken in battle. He’d kick them off the scaffold, closely savour their every struggle and watch the life light fade in their eyes. No one was safe from him, women, children, even those of his own kind who refused to carry out his orders. I believe Evesham was of similar ilk. I have a friend, a physician,’ Corbett sipped from his tankard, ‘at St Bartholomew’s in Smithfield. One night, while sharing a jug of ale with him, he talked about such men, who appear to have two souls, conflicting personalities. Like the old Roman god Janus, they glance either way at the same time. They can be charming, intelligent, courteous, but change their circumstances and they become angry, homicidal, violent and vengeful. I believe Walter Evesham was one of these, two souls in one body: the upright judge, the faithful clerk, but beneath that a killer, a murderer, someone who relished mayhem. A soul who’d have liked nothing better than to see the world burning, and he certainly did his best to achieve that.’ He paused and drew a deep breath.

‘Evesham was born on the Welsh March at the manor of Ingachin. He served in the royal levies in Wales, where his appetite for blood was probably whetted. He journeyed to London. A mailed clerk, he soon secured employment in the chancery at Westminster. He was lonely but he was ambitious, hungry for power. He was attracted to both the law and its opposite, the very mayhem it tries to control. He was also a man in a hurry. I suspect that from the very beginning he mixed with the underworld, the wolfsheads and outlaws. It would be so easy. I recently walked from the palace to the abbey, passing through the Sanctuary, which shelters men who would do anything for a favour or a silver coin. Evesham recognised that and relished it. I am also certain that in those early days he met those limbs of Satan – what Ranulf would describe as two cheeks of the same arse – Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. They too were beginning their career of lawlessness. A friendship developed between this pair and the royal clerk, but more of that in a while.’

‘Those three names,’ Ranulf asked, ‘Bassetlawe, Furnival and Rescales?’

‘I suspect, though I have no evidence, that Evesham killed them. The coroner ruled that they died natural deaths. Of course all three were bachelors, old men; who would care? Evesham did. He saw them as obstacles to his promotion, so all three went into the dark. Evesham also moved in courtly circles, where he met his darling Clarice, but he was already married to Emma. Now there is nothing like a marriage to help a good man up the slippery ladder of preferment. Evesham, although he had a child by the Lady Emma, found his first marriage irksome. A rising star in the court and chancery, he wanted to begin again. Lady Emma and her maid Beatrice were out doing good, visiting the almshouses, when they were attacked.’

‘By Waldene and Hubert?’

‘I suspect so. I have no proof, not yet. Lady Emma died in that violent affray. Fleschner, Coroner of Cripplegate at the time, hastily dismissed the incident in four lines. I suspect that both he and his inquiry were controlled, or rather hindered, by Evesham. Emma’s death, lamentable indeed, was dismissed as just another hideous street attack. Was the finger of suspicion pointed at the mysterious Beatrice, who simply disappeared? I don’t know – not yet. Walter Evesham acted the grieving husband, throwing his hands in the air, wailing and moaning, pleading to the King for justice. Secretly, though, he rejoiced. He was now the lonely widower, free to go hunting for a more profitable dowry. Even more important,’ Corbett placed his tankard back on the table, ‘an unholy pact had been created between Evesham, Waldene and Hubert the Monk. They were hand in glove in their villainy. At the same time Evesham was very able, erudite and skilled. He soon won the attention of old Burnell, the chancellor, but he wanted more. You see, he just didn’t kill for profit. He murdered because he enjoyed it. I cannot plumb the machinations of his dark soul, but he wanted to taunt both the very Crown and the lord he served, and so the Mysterium emerged.

‘Now, London is a seething pot of intrigue, murderous mayhem and unrest. Intense rivalries divide the Guilds, the merchants, the city fathers. The Great Ones at the Guildhall are not above using the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk for swordplay in Cheapside or elsewhere. However, if a merchant hires a dagger man, and that dagger man is caught, he will confess all. Evesham was cunning and subtle. He would approach a merchant and send him a short, curt message: “Your enemy is my enemy. St Paul’s VI, 2” or something similar. Of course the merchant or city father concerned would be intrigued. It might take some time to work out the reference to St Paul, but we all know about the great hoarding. Perhaps Evesham then sent another message explaining in greater detail what he was offering: the removal of a rival, a wife, someone who threatened his client. Let us say the merchant concerned agreed—’

‘But master, one of those merchants could have gone to Burnell or the King.’

‘Perhaps they did, but I doubt it. Nobody wants to be associated with killing, not openly. Nobody wants to admit that their rivalry with someone or their hatred for another person has turned murderous. Evesham may have been wicked, but he was a shrewd observer of human frailty. He’d scrutinise his client very closely. Someone like the merchant Chauntoys, full of resentment at being cuckolded. Down he’d go to St Paul’s and place the name of his enemy in that square. Then he would wait for Evesham to kill, or have killed, the chosen victim.’

‘Do you think,’ Sandewic observed, fascinated by Corbett’s revelation, ‘that those two miscreants Waldene and Hubert the Monk were party to such slayings?’

‘They were certainly involved in Lady Emma’s death, I’m sure of it. Mouseman claimed that Evesham and the two gang-leaders had been friends and allies for many a day.’

‘And Engleat?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Evesham’s faithful shadow? Of course, and indeed, once a murder has been committed, everyone involved is party to it, an accomplice; they too can go to the scaffold. Participation ensures silence and silence is taken as consent.’

‘And the tag?’ Ranulf asked. ‘
Mysterium Rei
– the Mystery of the Thing?’

‘Oh, that was Evesham. He was boasting. He couldn’t stop proclaiming how clever he was, how subtle. Ranulf, how many murderers have we trapped because they all share that one sin, the arrogance of Lucifer? They glory in what they’ve done because they see themselves as almost God-like, being able to dispense life and death at a whim.’ Corbett paused, crossing his arms. ‘Nor must we forget that Evesham liked the rich things of life: an elegant mansion, costly tapestries from Bruges, oaken furniture, the exquisite furnishings of the best craftsmen. He would revel in opulent robes, the finest food and wine. Moreover, he would use the profits of his murderous affrays to ease his way even further along the passageways of power into the heart of the chancery, the court and the Guildhall. Just think – and I am sure it happened – how many suppers he would host, banquets he would arrange, costly gifts for this bishop or that lord, presents to leading citizens, even our noble King. Evesham had a great deal to gain and very little to lose. After all, who would suspect such an upright, loyal, skilled clerk? True, someone like Engleat, Giles Waldene or Hubert the Monk might be tempted to turn King’s Approver and seek a reward, or even blackmail Evesham, but that would be highly dangerous.’

‘They were all members of the same pack, weren’t they?’ Chanson spoke up. ‘Like wild dogs that roam the streets.’

‘Precisely, Chanson. They were probably terrified of Evesham. They were also his accomplices. What would they have to gain through betrayal? If Evesham went down, so would they. I am sure they were generously rewarded for their murderous cooper – ation. So the Mysterium emerges in the city as a skilled assassin. You can just imagine how Evesham would enjoy himself, relishing the prospect of living a secret life. The humble clerk from the lonely manor on the Welsh March now a leading luminary at Westminster. Of course, he must have known that sooner or later the Crown would intervene. Burnell wanted the assassin trapped. Only then would Evesham consider that the Mysterium had served his purpose and it was time for him to disappear.

‘Burnell made careful enquiry amongst the clerks of the chancery, looking for someone to track the Mysterium down. Boniface Ippegrave became devoted to the task. I am not too sure why.’ Corbett unfolded his arms and sighed heavily. ‘I have as yet no evidence for this. In the schools of Oxford my hypothesis would be rejected as mere speculation. Somehow, and as yet I cannot explain why, Ippegrave concluded that the Mysterium was a chancery clerk. He listed suspects, men such as Staunton and Blandeford, ambitious young officials, but he also began to look very carefully at Walter Evesham. He kept his own records, some of which have undoubtedly been destroyed, but fragments remain. On one list are the names of fellow clerks, on another Evesham’s possible victims: Emma, Bassetlawe, Furnival, Rescales. He brought Evesham under closer scrutiny, and Evesham, no fool, recognised the danger. Boniface Ippegrave had to be dealt with. Already the rumour was circulating in the chancery that the Mysterium might be a clerk at Westminster. Who started that? Boniface, Evesham? I don’t really know, but Evesham was intent on silencing Ippegrave once and for all and at the same time bringing the Mysterium’s murderous foray to a satisfactory close.’

‘Evesham would like that, wouldn’t he?’ Ranulf intervened. ‘He would find it amusing, clever and subtle to rid himself of a dangerous rival, bring the Mysterium’s career to an end and then be hailed as the person responsible for it.’

‘True, Ranulf, and it was so easy to accomplish. Walter Evesham sends the merchant Chauntoys a message. He kills Chauntoys’ wife, then sets up both lure and trap. He orders Chauntoys to bring payment to the Liber Albus and at the same time hires some scrivener in the city to send a note to Boniface Ippegrave to the effect that his presence at a certain time in that same tavern would be of great profit to himself and the King. Boniface rose to the bait; he might even have thought he would learn vital information about the Mysterium.’ Corbett paused to drink from his tankard.

‘We all know what happened next. The merchant and Ippegrave are arrested and brought across the river into London. Now Ippegrave may have suspected Evesham, but Evesham played a very subtle trick. Chauntoys’ widow informed me how surprised Boniface seemed, as well as about hushed conversations between Evesham and his quarry. I believe Evesham told Ippegrave that he didn’t really believe he was guilty, that he would provide the opportunity for him to escape and he should take sanctuary in St Botulph’s until this matter was cleared up and the mystery resolved.’

‘Would Boniface believe that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Why not? If he was taken to Newgate, what further opportunity would he have to establish his innocence? Would he even survive such a pestilential place? If he could lodge in St Botulph’s, his own parish church, close to his sister, something might be done. I am sure Evesham had a number of choices open to him. If Boniface hadn’t escaped, something else would have happened. So Ippegrave flees to St Botulph’s and takes sanctuary. Evesham acts like virtue outraged, the honest royal official, furious at his prisoner’s escape. He summons the watch, as well as troops from the Tower. He has the church surrounded, every door and window closely guarded. No one, not even Adelicia, is allowed to see Boniface; only the parson, who brings the sanctuary man food and looks after his basic needs.’

‘But the ring Adelicia brought?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the ring. Again I can’t answer that, not yet. You see,’ he continued, grasping his blackjack and taking a generous mouthful, ‘Evesham and Engleat had decided that Boniface Ippegrave must not leave that church alive. Perhaps when Boniface first escaped he was in a panic, fearful. Now he had had time to think. Only God knows what happened in that church, what hushed conversations took place. Boniface certainly realised the pressing danger.’

‘Couldn’t he have appealed to Parson Cuthbert?’ Ranulf asked.

‘What could he say? What proof could he offer? Any counter-allegation made against Evesham would be dismissed as a guilty person trying to pass the blame elsewhere. What Boniface did was open the Book of the Gospels and write that riddle. Remember what he inscribed: “I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.” At the time neither Cuthbert nor Adelicia knew what he meant. However, when I sifted amongst Boniface’s papers I came across a scrap of parchment, a square of letters: ABC DEF GHI. It’s one of those puzzles much loved by clerks and scholars. Now, again I have no evidence, but if Boniface claims he was standing in the centre, that’s the letter E. Was he implying that Evesham was the Mysterium? He reinforces that by saying “I point to the four corners”, where the letters are AC GI. As they stand, these don’t mean much, but all four letters appear in Ingachin, Evesham’s manor, the birthplace he was so proud of. I am Corbett of Leighton, there’s Adelicia of Cripplegate, Sandewic of the Tower and, of course, Evesham of Ingachin. Boniface was leaving some sort of warning to whoever might find it. You must remember that he was fearful and apprehensive.’

‘So what happened next?’ asked Sandewic.